The Trite Stuff

An older man might announce to the world via old-fashioned press release or new-fangled media his latest plans, whatever they are, believing he’s about to enter some esteemed upper echelon of self-appointed demi-gods. He thought Mount Olympus was a real place, with marble seat cushions and an abundance of white light. He found his head in the clouds and looked forward to measuring Zeus’s handshake alongside other red-carpet acquaintances he’d met over the last eighteen months. Instead, he found himself in a rather human fraternity. And in this fraternity, even though it was in corporate America, people were not rated by their job titles, CEO, CFO, CMO, CMOFO, president, or whatever. This world was divided into those who had it and those who did not. This quality, was constantly muttered by yes men and staffers, racing between buildings carrying not coffee or doughnuts, but vegan smoothies and saline solution.

As to just what this idiotic quality was…well, it obviously involved stupidity. But it was not stupidity in the sense of eating paint chips and salsa on Saturday afternoon watching the Jets lose by double digits. No, the idea here seemed to be that a man should have the financial ability to go up in a hurtling piece of machinery and then have the naivete, arrogance, inexperience to go once and say that’s enough. Never going the next day or the next day. There was no single test to show whether or not this man had this moronic quality. Instead there was a series of tests, most involving seeing zeroes ballooning at the end of his net worth, following the crawl on CNBC.

A career in joyriding was not like being an ordinary rich man, with his apartment on Central Park West and his home in the Hamptons. No, this man had to not only possess an island or two, but an entire chain of them in case an unexpected weather event should doom one or two to the ocean floor. Saudi Princes were a good start, but more to the point, was the image of Babylonian Kings and Egyptian Pharaohs. The leaders who built buildings in their own image with millions of diligent worker bees baking in the unforgiving sun. Apollo’s a friend, so he could even get a deal on sunscreen, distributing it to the hardest working employees among the ranks. It’s all about one day constructing a tower or pyramid that reaches the stars, showing the man as someone who had the trite stuff* and could move higher and higher surpassing even God’s starry penthouse to the very top, where that same elite group of men met for drinks. The men who had the power to take other men’s breath away – since the air is quite thin up there. Oxygen be damned. 

Most rich men don’t have the trite stuff. They have lots of stuff, true. Art, furniture, ex-wives. But this is not about people who own a Picasso, but rather, those who buy entire museums on a whim. These are people who instead of doing something new or different, they do more of the same, only with a different colored space suit and a floppier cowboy hat. Those who had the trite stuff weren’t interested in time travel, teleportation or even creating an avocado that never loses its green sheen. They didn’t have time to imagine something new. They went with what everyone who’s ever done mushrooms and passed out on a beach staring at the stars thought. Why not go up there? This was fine, unoriginal and trite. 

They hired people who really knew what was going on, never taking the time to study telemetry or learn about gimbal lock. This was about photo-ops and future memes. But they had it. Now, whatever they did in boardrooms or on company retreats was imbued with whatever they learned for the two minutes they were up there. They were experts in their own minds. They were casting the movie of their lives and they were playing the starring role every night. All because they each had the trite stuff.

*apologies to Tom Wolfe

Throw The Book At ‘Em

Collaboration is the cornerstone of any healthy partnership. But sometimes, for whatever reason – language barrier, pharmaceutical stupor, extreme apathy – it’s impossible. There’s no getting through to your “partner.” You’ve tried the time-honored techniques of creative bonding. Building a huge rubber band ball or performing trust falls in an empty elevator shaft. That will only take you so far. And in the case of this particular type of trust fall, it all depends on how tall of a building you work in. Which unless you've greased the palms of several contractors, it hardly in your hands. 

Sometimes, you need to take emergency action to stimulate your compadre into immediate productivity. What I do when approaching a visible impasse, clearly marked, yet undefined, is always the same. I throw a book at them. 

Many early adopters of this projectile-aided form of motivation insist on using the heaviest book on their shelf. Something with a thick hardcover that may or may not be cardboard, but when it strikes a forehead it might as well be a piece of hurricane-tested plywood. The problem here is that once you throw Infinite Jest at a colleague, there’s very little room left for you to wiggle. You’ve shown your hand and now you better hope they fall in line. For a passing moment, you’re overjoyed that you kept the thousand page plus volume within reach despite your inability to open the thing and read it. Who cares? This is better. 

I prefer throwing small, pamphlet-style books. Ones that are only slightly heavier than a playing card. Always paperback and usually somewhere around 100 pages. Books of poetry work well, your high school reading is a great start. Anything that you can toss in rapid succession helps get your point across. What point is that? The point that you want them to start cracking the books. 

When you sense this tactic may be necessary, start by warming up your arm. The last you thing you want is an angry coworker and a torn rotator cuff. 

But don’t for a second think you did this to them. While you are the one throwing a milk crate full of trashy supermarket fiction in their direction, they did this to you by not stepping up first. You’re the messenger and Clive Cussler is the message. 

Unfortunately, too many people get their groceries delivered, so there’s little time to pause and spin the book rack looking for a light spy thriller. Everything is digital now. Even the advertising annuals, my last resort to get my point across. Too bad you can’t throw a computer at someone without worrying about the repercussions. There's too much paperwork to fill out, too many cords to unplug. You're better off trying to work with me or slapping yourself silly with a few Clancy novels. It worked for me.

Putting The Wrongfoot Forward

Mayor Mum Wrongfoot checking in. I wanted to clear up something. There are several issues that have been bugging me of late. I’ve noticed that the coverage of my administration is getting rather, oh I dunno, a bit hostile. What did I ever do to you to deserve such unapologetic animus? Whatever happened to the days when the press and pols donned their finest linens (even better than the ones taken out for Christmas dinner) and played squash together at the nearest Ivy League club? 

Depending on how long you’ve been on the political beat, you may have heard stories of lubricated evenings where solid members of the press corps helped prop up a certain slurring candidate so he wouldn’t keep dozing off into his dessert plate. And this was well after Chappaquiddick. 

Aren’t we supposed to be pals? I don’t see the problem here. It’s only a conflict of interest if you’re interested in such things. Consider it the original status quo. One of you people wrote a scathing editorial about the quality of the city’s streets. In it, this would-be-poet extends a rather tired metaphor that analogizes my administration’s decay with the crumbling of our many sidewalks. How is that fair? After consulting census data for estimated body mass index, it seems my constituents are among the largest in the nation. I didn’t seek them out. However, when this city was built, people were much smaller, much lighter. The heavy hoofing of the populace can’t be ignored as a contributing factor in the area’s infrastructure decline. We’re big people, there’s no denying that. I’ve called for cushions and rubberized streets with goose down curbs, but as you can imagine, that’s an expensive undertaking, not to mention one that lacks waterproofing.  

There was even a front page story of me receiving a brown lunch bag from an unidentified person under a lone streetlight at a strange hour. It’s no secret I don’t cook or even prepare my lunch. My personal chef was out of town and I had to exit the mayor’s residence for food. I heard commentators refer to the bag as a bribe when it was probably a half-eaten sandwich. Depending on the quality of the meat, that could still be considered a bribe.

From now on, I’m changing the way things operate here at city hall. Behind you, esteemed members of the press, are some old friends of mine who will be filling in for you indefinitely. I’ve taken a good deal of time and a great deal of trouble to roust childhood friends from their former employers to come cover me. Look, I’m just like you in that I want things to be easier. So my new rule is that I can only be covered by dear friends, people who helped me arrange different sets of wooden blocks or designed a Lionel train set or two. You may be wondering where this leaves you and your publications. I'm not sure. You're free to cover the coverage, of course. But I won’t be granting any interviews to anyone who didn’t bathe with me as a five-year-old, exchanging rubber duckies as a means of kindergarten currency. 

I can’t trust you people to tell things straight to our plus-sized populace. So who’s gonna break it to them? That’s if they haven’t broken the park benches yet. 

Wise Guise

I’m sure you’ve read (if you can read) about the Great Resignation, with all its greatness and resignationness. It is an unbelievably dramatic prediction where employees of all skill levels and hat sizes must embrace the healing power of job severance or be left in a lonely landscape of empty chairs and former friends. Not since the heyday of Big Tobacco has quitting looked so good.

However, this has left many a fine employer at a distinct crossroads. A crossroads not that different from the one Robert Johnson found himself at, guitar and contract in tow. Frankly, I’ve always had trouble comprehending why Johnson decided to sell his soul to the Devil versus offering installments, giving both parties a necessary trial period. A good return policy is the basis of halfway decent customer service. Didn’t he ever hear of the concept of rent-to-own? I love my car, but it’s a lease, so there’s always a way out. I’d imagine the Devil is against such an escape clause for his business partners, but what’s the harm in asking? Given what happened to the economy in the second half of the 20^th century, it’s unlikely Johnson received fair market value for his soul. He could have shopped around, too, asking the hornless. Are we that shocked RJ produced a couple great albums but died shortly thereafter? The question should be who Barry Manilow sold his soul to and for how much? 

Soul-selling aside, what are the leftover employees to do given the likelihood of this massive shakeup? Even if consulting Satan was an option, it’s unwise given his track record and aversion to modern technology. A good way to tell the contract you’re about to sign is a bad one is the presence of a quill. There’s being old-fashioned and then there’s being satanic. Because it’s already happening. Companies are hiring aliens (which are in the news now every day) and robots. Why? Well, doing so has a couple obvious benefits. In the first place, it increases productivity and secondly, it makes those in charge look much more human by comparison. You might think your boss is cold and unforgiving, but have you compared him to your Smart Freezer? 

We human beings are not powerless in this struggle between man and machine. We have makeup, don’t we? I’m not talking about some internal strength that comes in handy during periods of adversity. I mean actual makeup that helps when a person wishes to add a little extra blush to their terrestrial visage. We all probably have pieces of scrap metal laying around waiting to be scrounged.

If you can’t beat ‘em, emulate ‘em. In a way, we all are impersonating a person on a daily basis – the good worker, the hard worker. Why not go a step further and model our habits after the star visitor or sentient machine? If they can copy our every move, we ought to do the same. It’s worth a shot. If that doesn’t work, there’s always the Devil.

Aqueduct and Cover

There are seldom days when I don’t, for a few quiet seconds in the corner of a public place, among the plums and the plantains, weep for the gleeful desecration of the English language. Is it that I care about the language, holding onto arcane phrases like a good monger grips his catch? Not really. It’s that I wish deep down to be the prime desecrator, incinerating my mother tongue at the steep pyre of ritualistic cleanses.

With too many examples to recount here now, I’ve chosen a single phrase that speaks to the rising tide of cultural submergence. Observant New Yorkers, those who look up constantly, transfixed by a piece of broken scaffolding or the weird visage of a horridly unattractive gargoyle, would never dream of missing what I’m about to detail. To the casually blind and the socially inept, all cops patrolling the five boroughs are members of the NYPD. Given such a haughty preamble, you should know that this is obviously not the case. 

The people entrusted with protecting the city’s massive water supply system are known as the New York City Department of Environmental Protection Police. DEP, for short. However, in the old days, they were known as the Aqueduct Police – that’s it. You’d have to be adamantly against clean water to prefer the new name for the Pont du guards.

Aqueduct Police require no acronym, no catchy title, no overblown classification. It says what it is, and thus it must wash away like the runoff from our highly polluted wetlands. But they changed the name to inure the public to the department’s incompetence. While people expect things from the Aqueduct cops, they count on very little from members of the DEP. Look around. The city, no the planet is filthy. And with all the protests abounding, who’s speaking out against this outrageous name change? Me? Anyone else you know of? Didn’t think so.

Everywhere I go I’m surrounded by plastic water bottles. We’ve really bought in, huh? The Bottle Boys and Big Agua have convinced us that water is best when sealed by a thin layer of smelly plastic. There’s nothing stopping you from carrying around an empty glass during a rainstorm for a couple of quick natural sips. Still fearful of acid rain? Is it any worse than the soda lining your fridge door?

It’s all just a drop in the bucket. Cheers. 

The Creative Myth

In the beginning, there were lots of people standing around a basement looking at their phones, mindlessly scrolling with two fingers. Some, with their other hands, were scratching themselves in obvious places that required slightly less scrolling. There was lots of fidgeting and more than a few employees made loud reference to the distinct possibility of toxic mold. The room was damp, danker than usual. And they were waiting for the Boss to tell them what to do. 

“Why are we in the basement again?”

“I feel safer down here, closer to the earth, farther from Him.” 

“Who?”

“The Client. Now take those files one by one, no, two by two, and begin shredding. I know this is tedious work, but by keeping bad ideas floating around, we’re risking a karmic rub off.”

The Boss was trying to convince them to destroy as many documents as possible, under the guise of “intellectual property.” It didn’t seem to matter that the agency’s best ideas were stolen ones. 

“It’s raining now. That means The Client is angry again.”

“We should try to find shelter. Higher ground.”

The Boss was not inclined to agree. As a boy in rural Oregon he came to loathe tree houses. Anything more than a few feet from the ground was breathtakingly arrogant. Was it any surprise that he was having trouble breathing with all the mold? And how could a person hope to stay grounded so far from the earth?

Too bad the deluge wouldn’t let up. Bill in accounting was a fine swimmer, erstwhile captain of his college swim team, the backstroke extraordinaire of the group (Syracuse Scungille Class of ’82).

“It’s pouring and don't look now, but it’s coming into the basement.”

This was a disaster. The Boss pretended to look horrified at the soaked banker boxes and waterlogged computers. He gave them a perfunctory frown. But this was a boon for The Boss. In those boxes was evidence of his crimes. Flooding was far more efficient than shredding. Fraud, money laundering, blackmail, and outright theft. He watched as the ink ran away, viewing the whole soak as some sort of divine miracle. 

 

All the bad ideas were gone, but so were the good ones. There were some things worth saving, thought The Boss. The Client, too vengeful, lacked the aim of a dispassionate deity, letting his emotions get the best of him.  

“It’s The Client.”

“What does He want?”

“He says you’re fired, chief."

You didn’t think The Client was going to forget the purpose of the flood in the first place. No chance. That's why he saved the worst idea for last.

It had been a long day and the Boss needed a cleanse, ideally juice-related. The rain would have to suffice instead.

Roll Models

 

At some point in the Internet-fueled fever dream that was the 1990s, Charles Barkley – Sir Charles to his royal rooters, Chuck to his friends and fans – implored basketball fans everywhere not to look up to him. He was, he insisted, no role model. He was right, naturally. Children had no reason to admire him. This was a man who never even won a single NBA title. The excuses of being born in the wrong time amid Jordan’s greatness were common, but insufficient. Because it goes far deeper than that. We shouldn’t be looking up to people, even ballplayers who tower over us little fellas. 

However, rather strikingly, the Round Mound of Rebound said nothing about not looking up to baked goods. He was silent on the matter of modeling one’s life after a wholesome, hearty loaf. Roll models, his playing days waistline implies, understood the importance of seeking counsel from a hot tray fresh out of the oven. 

Think the average athlete is complex? You won’t after staring into the grooves of a warm sfogliatelle. Sure, people have layers, and lots of them. But not like croissants. Most human beings are easy to read and easier to handle. How is a person supposed to manage the precarious structure of a guava danish? 

I don’t look up to rolls – I can’t – since they are too often on a large plate, well below me. The only time they are at eye level is during a particularly wild breakfast array, piled up from table to ceiling. But that’s only in the presence of guests, and only ever on weekends. 

Plenty of people revere bakers. Not me, not with their goofy hats and long aprons. Look at a portly baker failing to match each pastry roll for roll, then look at a lip-smacking peach tart. You tell me which one you’d rather be locked in a room with. 

This shouldn’t be a hard choice. That’s unless the food is stale. 

Get The Wrong Idea

When you have a list of great ideas, it’s important to safeguard them at all costs – especially from other worse ideas. You can’t risk them sputtering away into nothingness, polluting by idiocy – not when your bonus depends on it. So each of us has time-tested techniques of keeping big ideas satisfied. Some build them up out of Legos or wooden blocks, providing something to hold onto with both hands, and if need be, break in a furious huff.

Others like to name their ideas. But they don’t respect ideas in the way they respect human beings. Instead of giving them actual names, real names, they flip through a pun book seeking out the lamest word tricks. That’s not how it’s done. We all started out as ideas. Ideas are a lot like children, even precocious ones, in that most peak around four.   

I worked for a pretty big map company back in the day. Out of respect for the fired, I won’t refer to them by name except to say that their name rhymes with Grand McSally. My team came up with a winning idea – everyone loved it. The security guards loved it. The CEO loved it. It was the first time in my experience where debate consisted of a few thumbs up and lots of unrelated gossiping. 

At my insistence the winning idea was referred to quite plainly as John Atlas. It wasn’t because we sought to landmark every porta-john in the five boroughs either. John just worked. It was simple and it felt safe not to overthink things. Several colleagues of mine who shall remain nameless (Moron #1, Dope #3) wanted to call it “Mercator Perfection” or “Map Genius.” I remained steadfast in my defense of John. John is a great, simple name. 

We wanted to get cartography taught in schools again. Something we thought was easy enough. As I explained over and over to members of the Globe lobby, “while the world isn’t flat, walls and tables certainly are. Maps are just easier for students to grasp.” These people didn’t seem to care. They just wanted bigger and bigger globes, one in the gymnasium, another on the soccer field. Is this what Galileo wanted? 

Is it any wonder that cartographers haven’t had steady work since the 18^th century? I thought John Atlas was going to change all that. Turns out a pun might’ve been better. The whole experience was a real map in the face. 

 

The Fog of More

 

The days of cold calling prospective employers until a flustered receptionist accidentally patches you through to the CEO are over. The era of renting a tuxedo right off the rack and walking into the lobby, demanding to speak to someone in charge with the stipulation that, “I’m not going anywhere without a signed contract and a freshly printed W-2 form” are also a thing of the distant past. Posing as an inquiring journalist working on a story about one of the executives sordid personal lives to glean any relevant information is too often considered a low-grade felony. 

Standing out from the seaweed of applicants is no easy task, especially among an ocean littered with plastic bags, krill, and inebriated body surfers. How does a person get noticed from a single email? Cover letters aren’t even tossed onto a pile anymore. There’s no pile in sight. The letters aren’t printed out and parsed, read aloud and marked up. They are scanned by an underling and sentenced to Internet purgatory, never to be read again. 

Most job seekers are satisfied after two emails, the initial cover letter plus one more follow-up. That’s not going to move the needle. You want to get noticed? Then two measly emails aren’t going to remotely cut it. 

You need to lose your sense of social propriety and shame. Instead of modeling your email etiquette after the ghost of Emily Post, go with Robert McNamara instead. Bombard them with missives, diatribes, and short queries. Eventually, they’ll lose patience with you, their employees, as well as the authorities. Wear your restraining orders like suspenders. Launch an all-out assault on inboxes, maintaining a surgical campaign with new, longer emails every day. That includes the weekend. Yes, even Sundays. 

Let God take a day off, he already has a job. You don’t. 

Whataboutthism?

Attention shoppers: given the nationwide shortage in toilet paper, please feel free to ask any of our expertly trained staff members (they are denoted by large handwritten red letters reading “EXPERT” above their name tags) to direct you to the store’s surplus of viable alternatives on the loading dock out back.

What about paper towels? We talking perforated here, or what? I’m agnostic on the matter. 

What about tortillas? Corn or flour? 

What about bathmats? Throw in a doormat while you’re at it. And make it a nice with one with a nice greeting. 

What about beach towels? Umbrellas, too? When folded properly, they’ll work.   

What about newspapers? As in, print ones? Didn’t even know we still sold those.

What about paper plates? No, no. You mean paper napkins. Much better. 

What about lettuce? Anything but kale is fine by me. 

What about leaves? Don’t wait until October. Leaf peepers have a way of getting their ways.  

What about what? Suit yourself. There’s a hose out back.  

Tautology 101

All work and no play would make anyone a dull person. Constant labor and very little pleasure create an atmosphere of boredom that inevitably seeps into one’s personality. The daily grind gets to you after a while, especially in the absence of relaxing diversions. Round the clock drudgery sans any real amusement leads to the cruel acceptance of a tedious existence. A 24-hour-a-day-job devoid of genuine distraction sucks the joy out of life. Repeat after me: repetition for repetition’s sake is worth repeating. Repetition for repetition’s sake is worth repeating. 

“Hey Jack, do you want to go out for some drinks after work? Some of us are meeting around the corner for happy hour.”

 

“No.”

 

“Hi there, Jack, a few of us were thinking we’d duck out early and take a look at the new exhibit at MoMA, something about post-expressive self-impressionism, before it closes. Wanna tag along?”

 

“No.”

 

“Jack? You busy? Some of the guys mentioned working from home after lunch, it’s Friday, after all.”

 

“No.”

 

“Are you sending your emails to proofreading? I’m not sure that’s necessary.”

 

“No.”

 

“Jack, the fire marshal is here and hey says everyone has to meet in the lobby to discuss emergency situations. Coming?”

 

“No.”

 

“Umm, Jack, not sure if you noticed the smoke, but it’s getting pretty heavy as you can see, or maybe you can’t see. Most of us are taking the stairs since you’re not supposed to take the elevator in a fire. You might’ve known that had you attended the meeting last week.”

 

“No.”

 

“Mr. Off, this is Chief O’Sullivan with the FDNY, you have to come out before we condemn the building. I’m not risking one my guys lives to save a moron like yourself. You have 5 minutes.”

 

“No.”

 

“Hey Jack, can you hear me? I’ve never used a megaphone before. It’s more garbled than I expected. You should really come out before smoke inhalation sets in. We’re actually pitching the fire department now. Apparently, they aren’t happy with their current agency. Was thinking instead of emphasizing fire we’d push water as the angle. More blues, fewer reds. What do you think?”

 

“I’m coming down now.” 

Slamming Doors

At the natural end of any argument between two people, when all the points have been made and all the counterpoints have been remade like a messy bed without a single hospital corner, words no longer suffice. They are tasteless, useless accoutrements, stuff you get for free in a bag of swag at any overly-air-conditioned convention center. No, you need something more. You need an exclamatory action that is sufficiently emphatic yet non-criminal. It is, as any amateur sewer mending a broken vest will tell you, quite the needle to thread. Because sirens and handcuffs are not the addendum anyone wishes for their closing argument.

However, there is a non-verbal method of argumentation that predates civilization, one that’s well-tested and well-liked. I’m talking of course about slamming doors. You want to make a strong case for something? Then check your hinges first. A door falling off the wall negates the impact of any fiery exit. 

In the early days, say, when man lurked in caves or clay huts, the slamming of doors took more than gusto. It took time. There weren’t many doors, you see. You could spend all day searching for the perfect rock slab to awkwardly fit across a dwelling’s wide opening. Long before open office plans, early man survived without so much as a saloon door or blinds to maintain their sense of privacy or independence. The risk was greater, too. Hernias and fractured limbs were the standard cost of sealing up a cave. It wasn’t just the end of the argument then – it was the end. Unless your opponent had an innate sense of spelunking giving them the rare ability to find a new exit, there was no getting out. This made it non-criminal on a technicality, since the police state in those days mostly involved clubbing. And not the kind with wristbands and velvet ropes either.

Still, your point was made. Anyone able to close a door closed off any opposition as well. After Martin Luther nailed his theses to the church door, he slammed it shut. That was, for lack of a better term, his often overlooked 96^th thesis. 

Safe Spaces for Billionaires

As was predicted some time ago by an ancient nomad furiously scratching onto a hard surface, billionaires are heading for space. They are bored, tired of money, fed up with people, exhausted from the sparkle of micro-gastronomy, and now looking to the stars for happiness. Critics might argue that it doesn’t count as “going to space” unless you get out and take a stroll. Without a spacewalk, you're not really in space. I tend to agree. If you drive to the beach, you need to touch your toes through sand for it to count. Turning around on a dead-end street, rolling down the window a crack to catch a wisp of salinity isn’t nearly enough to regale your co-workers Monday morning about a seaside adventure. You might as well have watched the surfers, swimmers, and denim-wearing drone-operators through binoculars. Like the cabbie is wont to say once you’ve handed them a fistful of quarters and demanded he shut off the meter, “where to?”

Bodegas

For most billionaires, a bodega or “convenience store" is a foreign destination, more unknown than a distant nebula. They’re cramped, sure. But any more so than the latest intergalactic space module? Here you can buy beer, e-cigs and a decent banana.  

Sidewalks

This is a tricky one. The winding concrete paths that surround their palatial Western compounds do not count. We’re talking about ones with paper boys tossing digital readers into sprinkler heads, neighborhood dogs bounded by electric fences, and stop signs in favor of traffic lights. For most billionaires, the last time they walked the streets was as hundred millionaires, which means it might take some time adjusting to the modesty. 

Kitchen

Tell the personal chef to take the day off and poach an egg themselves for once.

Parades

Since most of us have the appearance of either French heritage or a deep and abiding love of snails, today would be a good day to inquire about participating in your local Bastille Day celebration. Most towns do something on July 14^th, everything from dramatic readings of Le Petit Prince and meditations on Lafayette’s cultural influence to eating foie gras for meal and adopting a cartoonish accent for the entire day. C'est bon.

Public Transit

It’s true, most billionaires like to keep themselves hermetically sealed off from the populace, far from coughing fits and autograph seekers. But now’s the time to ride the bus with everyone else and take their chances.

Park Benches

When’s the last one of these knuckleheads sat down, fed some pigeons and people watched? 

Beds

Most billionaires are incapable of deep sleep, afraid too many zs will get in the way of their futile quest for immortality. Many are members of the aspiring undead, vampiric and sleep-deprived. When they do sleep, it’s standing up with their arms crossed awkwardly and their molars showing. Why not show they still crash in a regular bed every so often? 

Bathroom Lines

When's the last time they had to wait in a line to relieve themselves? This is a universal part of being human, and one, should they return to space, they'll wish they had considered a bit more seriously. 

People are Nuts

 

When I say that squirrels are the moral compass of the country, I’m not bluffing. When I say that these long-tailed rodents fill the massive void left by organized religion, I’m not exaggerating. When I say that these “cute rats” have a keen understanding of right and wrong, it should already be obvious to anyone who’s ever installed a bird feeder. They provide the American public what we’ve been sorely lacking for decades now. They see through our petty skirmishes and trivial squabbles, viewing us as we truly are. Squirrels understand that the world revolves around nuts. The wilder the better. But nuts don’t just fall out of trees, they are all around us, all the time. Squirrels know. They appreciate a nice acorn every now and again paired with roasted broccoli or a fresh radish rose. 

Nuts run major corporations and enact weird policies with poorly written guidelines, heavy on jargon and light on substance. Stuff everyone in the company must follow – or else. Some nuts lead countries of varying shapes and sizes, redrawing the map to suit their cartographical impulses. 

Yes, it’s true, some nuts, let’s say, walnuts, have been known to improve a salad or two on occasion. But that’s the exception. Most recoil at the mere thought of loose, subpar vinaigrette. Sure, there are those who routinely add nuts to ice cream sundaes. Peanuts or pistachios, though walnuts work here, too. But this is not the norm. It’s simply undignified for a Fortune Magazine reading Captain of industry to require a daily drench of hot fudge as a chocolatey substitute to an already rigorous self-care regimen.

Filberts are good to shove into a visible crack to stop an inevitable leak. I’ve never seen someone eat one in earnest though. It’s always a bet of some kind, consumed after a person is pushed to the edge. To achieve the right consistency in water chestnuts usually means violating at least one subsection of the Geneva Convention. 

Most people are complete nuts.

Getting Bitter All the Time

 

There’s something to be said for letting things go. For letting obstacles casually roll off your back without as much as a second thought. And that’s still true when excruciating back problems and throbbing joints dominate your every crouch and lean. Because not everything rolls well, since not everything enjoys a nice new set of wheels. Some things streak while other things dent. You never can tell what’s going to leave a mark and what will hardly be remembered in a day or so. 

When the time comes to plop down on an expensive leather couch for an extended session with a prying shrink, letting things go often benefits the plopper. The money spent spilling your soul is greatly improved by moving onto fresh territory each week. Constantly dissecting the same few subjects isn’t bad for your mental state as much as your financial one. You don’t always know it at first, but the good doctor doesn’t want to deal with the same thing every week either. It’s like watching a repeat when they’d much prefer hearing a new tale of woe. It’s nice not always knowing the plot.

But for many in the working world, bitterness is the fuel that drives them. And why not? I’ve never been one to call out bitter folks. For one thing, bitter is one vowel away from better. It’s why I’ve always given bad (rad) and crummy (chummy) people the benefit of the doubt. 

What’s one letter off in the scheme of things? 

Litter. 

Deeducation Camp

Hello, stragglers, find a seat towards the back where I can’t see you. I don’t need to make out your faces – the security footage will be plenty clear when I review this assembly later on today with members of the NSA. That said, welcome to Camp Magna Errata in the heart of Undisclosed Territory. You have some bad habits, a lifetime of them, and we’re here to help.

Now repeat after me, “id est vestrum erit flagitium.” Good. There’s still a chance for you yet. 

Since this is a camp for adults, I’d like to speak to your children first. You don’t have to leave the room, just put on these ear plugs and blackout sunglasses. That person standing behind you putting a bag over your head is a professional. We haven’t suffocated anyone yet and we’re not about to start now. It’s okay to laugh. Laughing is good. It means you can breathe. 

With that taken care of, kids, thanks for bringing your parents out to camp for this year’s first summer session. Obviously, some of you are worried about putting us in charge of their well-being. Don’t be. Many of us come from the BOP (Bureau of Prisons) and most of us have parents of our own. There are probably many of you wondering how you’re going to get home, since the vast majority of you are minors. That won’t be a problem. We have issued flawlessly beautiful counterfeit driver’s licenses which, once they’ve served their initial function should grace any mantle. This way you can drive home the family car without issue. There are PBA cards on the table by the exits in case you want some extra protection should you get pulled over on the thruway. I realize that many of you are skeptical of the merits of the camp since your college funds are going towards payment, but think of it this way: once we’re done with them, you won’t need to run away to school. Indoctrination begins here, but continues in the home. 

Jimmy, Johnny, Stacey, please start removing the bags from the campers’ heads. I’m noticing Mr. Whitaker is a little too blue, thanks. Light purple is okay, but anything darker and we might have to engage the paramedics again. Those gasps you’re hearing sure sound like excitement to me. Every year I see a new batch of campers ready to unlearn what they think they know. However, it’s that first near-fatal coughing fit that says to me, “summer has arrived.” 

Remember, this is a “deeducation camp.” To paraphrase Socrates, “the only thing you know is what we tell you.” It’s not that questions aren’t permitted exactly. There’s just no point to asking them. We tell you everything and that should be enough. Hopefully, your religious upbringing, lodged somewhere inside, eases this process. 

After two years with us, you’ll be ready again for society. You could get out early for good behavior, though that’s extremely rare. Much more common is getting your sentence, I mean, tenure extended based on the board’s oversight. Your meals are taken care of as are your sleep aids. Whoever you are on the outside is irrelevant to us here. There won’t be yachting or small talk. You listen, you unlearn, and you keep your mouth shut. Unless you’re eating, then you have to open it. 

And that cute little Latin phase is our unofficial motto here at Camp ME. It means, “it’s all your fault.” Bathroom is the last door on the left. There's only one stall, so if you want some privacy, it's probably best to find the Exxon just outside of town. It's only about a half a mile away.

Run Along

Running from something is much easier than running for something. Otherwise, you’re like a politician who’s forced to take a side on every issue and stand for every single thing. You won’t have a stand-in to take the heat either. Your opponents, your constituents and your miscellaneous jungle cats will still walk all over you. They’ll be lying in wait, ready to pounce with a series of gotcha questions or sharpened claws meant for mauling.

It’s why, when asked anything, no matter how inconsequential it seems at the time, never put your hand up. Unless you prefer to wave your personal life goodbye. You’re stepping out on your old existence for one that’s dictated by people you have never met. For this reason, and many others, your handlers will help jog your memory at every campaign event, imploring you to get better with names. 

In any race, there’s a winner and a whole lot of losers. Lead the way, take each criticism in stride, and march to the beat of a different chief of staff. Tread lightly, troop across, and steer every conversation onto subjects you’re familiar with discussing. That means Russian novels can take a hike.

Stroll around, saunter along, and ramble through your term. Trudge on your own merits unless you'd rather plod on. Ramble, amble, and let yourself wander. There’s the whole notion of leaning in, which is fine as long as you avoid tipping over. Achieving the perfect balance takes time, practice, and the right pair of athletic shoes. 

But when, if ever, will you be allowed to put your feet up? Maybe when you’re unceremoniously ushered out of office? Get a move on, your enemies are at the elevator bank. A standard fight or flight response requires either strong fists or a large cache of frequent flyer miles (you have neither). Might be time to make a run for it. Hurry, scurry, dart, and dash. Scamper, scuttle, zoom, and zip. Speed, streak, boogie, and bolt. Gallop, hurtle, bomb, and rush. Don’t forget a copy of the constitution on your indefinite constitutional. It could come in handy at a show trial down the road. 

Tired yet? You could take this sitting down. 

Potemkin West Village

Lately, concerned citizens have focused their ire on the street-encroaching monstrosities enlarging the reach of nearly every restaurant in New York. These formerly modest joints, small in stature, have taken the sidewalk and the street by force, and are now looking for more territory to conquer. What about cars? What about pigeons? What about the putrid garbage that needs a sizable place to pile up for its semi-weekly collectors? Who speaks for them, with their grimy overalls and banana peels? 

Last year, industrious restauranteurs began constructing outdoor structures as a place where diners could dine in the open air. But what now? There are those who wish to tear down these particle board cafes to make room for anything else. Not me. I’d like to see every restaurant have one. Then I’d like establishments that don’t even serve food have one. Like laundromats, banks, and public restrooms. Though the last one might become predictably problematic in the wild. Whatever, we’re a resilient nation and we’ve come too far to let a little alfresco urinal cakes get in the way of a great concept. 

These structures say to the world, “everything is going to be okay,” and that’s even if everything isn’t going to be okay. When people see them, they think, “good, at least someone is making the most of a bad situation.” 

That will do for a bit, holding people at bay. The more financial institutions and bathrooms with large outdoor umbrellas, the better. This time though, we must go farther. I’m talking about building fake restaurants with cardboard people (balsawood is fine ) that say the city is more vibrant than ever. Details matter. There should be people of varying sizes, with a person in the back receiving the Heimlich to bring some realism to the scene. 

Things will get tricky in the winter when the frost makes it annual return. But by then, everyone could just go inside to eat. 

Clear a Path

I meet people every day who want things handed to them. Little things in bags with doilies inside and ribbons on top. Things that are both expensive and useless. Gifts that no one needs but everyone wants. Things with handwritten cards and envelopes full of cash. They want to be treated like they’re walking the red carpet when all they’re doing is heading full steam into a conference room for some late-breaking ideating. 

These people are married to the notion someone else with a higher salary should be the one to crack the big idea for them. If they firmly believe that, foxtrot over to the ol’ Chemical Bank on Main and see if they have any safes to take a spin. Ask for Dave. Then ask why they haven’t changed the sign to Chase since the merger between the two financial institutions happened twenty plus years ago. 

They say they want a path cleared for them. They want their bosses to give them more than dribs and drabs, but chunks and hunks instead. Enough to chew on and plenty to choke on. 

What do they think this is? Logging 101 with Long Jack Lumber turning Muir Woods into a stack of piano legs? If that were the case, I’d recommend grabbing a flannel shirt from the pile over by the bonfire, some steel-tipped Timberlands if you’re worried about the lead ones and any clip-on beard for the follicly-deficient. While they are detachable, they aren’t yet itchless. Mere toupees you staple in place onto each cheek. Although, having someone else man the stapler usually means better, less askew results. 

What else do these ingrates desire besides a clear path? They want it landscaped and everything. With gnomes, fountains, manicured hedges to form a soul-crushing maze. They despise guardrails or limitations of any kind. They’d prefer cruising around a curve only to careen off it into the ocean below. That’s how they define freedom.

I think it’s time to log off for a while. The fumes are starting to get to me. 

Mental Summer Break

When you find yourself chasing parked cars, picking broccoli out of your molars using the rusty bumpers of ancient Corvettes, perhaps a vacation is in order. That’s where I found myself a week ago, hopped up on iced coffee (or is it ice coffee?) humming the spiritual chord progression of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” at an octave even the birds in the area viewed as painfully disruptive. Taking time off as a valued, cherished, and beloved member of any team is not a simple procedure. People depend on me. Without me, they might consider themselves oddly competent when they’re not.

I had to get away. I couldn’t read another lengthy email from an underling, promptly dictating an adamant response only to watch as my live-in AI manufactured numerous inventive typos. This isn’t merely a “ducking” affair either. It went beyond that. “Rat custard,” “sun of a kitsch,” “peace of Schmidt.” The last one obviously a reference to retired baseball Hall of Famer, Michael Jack Schmidt. You might ask why must my responses all be littered with profane insults? I wouldn’t say littered.

I could’ve taken the obvious route, boarding a cruise ship bound for wherever, praying each night for smooth sailing and a sanitary buffet. But that’s not the sort of buffet I had in mind for this mental break. My focus was squarely on one, James William Buffet, the preeminent promotor of vacations and vacation-related culture. Listening to his entire discography gave me great insight into what living on island time would truly entail and how it would affect my large collection of clocks.

I had always dismissed the rabid Parrotheads, believing they were a twisted cult, obsessed with decapitating the only birds able to give us a little guff. Frankly, they scared me. Anyone living permanently on vacation was someone to be feared, someone with nothing to lose – except their suitcase with sunscreen in the triple digits of SPF.

When I discovered that there were no actual severed parrot heads and this was not the Bermuda shorts wearing wing of Bohemian Grove, I got a little more comfortable. So I locked myself in a 12 X 12 break room last week, one pried open with a crowbar that must’ve been left behind by the previous tenant. I played “Margaritaville” – oh, I don’t know, I lost count somewhere around Wednesday. Figure it’s a 3-minute song that I played for 5 straight days. By Friday I was feeling amazingly refreshed. There was no initiation, nor was there an unwanted appearance by the Parrothands, a radical splinter group who’ve made their presence known at more and more concerts of late. 

All I can say, under advice from my legal team, is that it’s good to be back.